“Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes.

On August 16, 1922, in the midst of writing Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf penned a passage in her diary panning James Joyce's Ulysses. "An illiterate, underbred book it seems to me ... the book of a ...

BLOOMSDAY may not have reached the nerd heights of Comic-Con, but it’s still a glorious expression of fandom. Each year, in honor of the raunchy, transcendent Dublin day recounted in James Joyce’s ...

‘Ulysses,” published a century ago, has two, coexisting reputations: one for being difficult to read, on account of its modernist techniques; another, at first glance contradictory, for its exposure ...